The Stand In

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. One of my best friends is a teacher, and a warmer or more caring person you couldn’t wish to meet.’

  ‘Maybe you should set us up after this. I think I’ll need a little nurturing after this ordeal.’

  ‘Ha! No way.’

  ‘No? Not everyone has difficultly dealing with sloppy seconds.’

  ‘Get off my bed, Archer. Go and . . . be somewhere else.’ She makes this sound like go get fucked.

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’m fine where I am.’ Even as I’m saying this, I’m getting up, my shoes almost touching her toes as I stand, towering over her slim frame. Intentionally. She tips her chin with an air of defiance, though it’s clear she’s not comfortable standing this close to me. Her whole stance reminds me of how she was in the kitchen when I’d asked her to pass me my mug.

  ‘You can’t think you’re staying here. With me.’ Her gaze narrows.

  ‘I more than think it. I know it.’ I lean closer still. I know I’m being a twat, but it’s the least of what she deserves. While I get that there’s something going on with her boss, it doesn’t excuse what she’s done. I have a feeling that today isn’t going to be consequence free.

  ‘That’s not happening. You and me—we’re not. I mean.’ Her eyes slam shut, her whole body seeming to move with a deep inhale. ‘You’re not staying here.’ When she opens her eyes again, her voice is calm, her expression resolute. There’s something startling about the change in her demeanour. Something that pulls at my awareness, a spike of interest I find I have to push away.

  ‘That’s no fun.’ I step away, slipping my jacket from my shoulders and discarding it on the bed as I move over to the narrow window. I feign interest in what’s going on below because this isn’t the kind of consequence I have in mind.

  ‘Yes, well, life is full of disappointments. Just ask your parents.’

  And with that damning dénouement, it looks like we’re back on track. She stomps to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  So dramatic.

  But not much of an exit.

  More like a confinement.

  And I have time.

  At a loss of what to do now that the object of my ire, the issuer of my affliction has vacated the room, I unfold my garment bag and hang my suit on the outside of the wardrobe, then pushing my hands into the pockets of my jeans, I saunter over to the chest of drawers to where a complimentary bottle of posh water stands.

  A tiny bedroom. A single bottle that I might just drink before you do, Heather. Also, just so you know, I take up lots of space in a bed.

  It’s too bad that this place doesn’t have a minibar because something tells me I might need a crutch to prop me up through the day.

  I hope it isn’t a long-arse Catholic ceremony. The kind that makes you wish you were dead.

  I’m pleasantly surprised to find the top of the chest of drawers is actually glass and displays the kind of confectionary that usually accompanies a minibar, which must mean . . .

  I pull open on the copper handle to find these are cupboard doors made to look like drawers, the interior of which houses the kind of treasure to rival Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders. Yes—booze!

  ‘Open sesame,’ I mutter, twisting the top off a tiny bottle of Finlandia vodka, then adding a splash of Fever Tree tonic. Just what the doctor ordered, or what the doctor would order if he knew what kind of afternoon he was in for.

  Glass in hand, I decide to inspect the contents of the goodies stashed above. A large wooden tray displays compartments filled with silver containers. A selection of honeyed peanuts, sea-salt pretzels, some fuck awful goji berries, and pot of chocolate covered raisins. I almost open the latter but reconsider when I think about them being stuck to my teeth. It’s a look my darling girlfriend wouldn’t be into, I’m sure. And though it might serve her right to be on the arm of a gap-toothed date, I happen to be a tiny bit vain.

  I move to inspect a row of matching containers, each labelled in a way to make me chuckle.

  Help? A travel adapter with a three-in-one lead to fit all devices.

  Hungover? An energy shot, a rehydration sachet, headache pills, and a tube of under-eye cream.

  Hubba-Hubba? Premium condoms x 3, a sachet of lube, a couples vibrating cock ring-cum-mini vibe, and a feather tickler.

  Though the contents are marked on each, I still feel the need to investigate the last one, twisting off the top, the contents springing out like snakes from a tin can. I pick up the ring and the vibe, examining them through the cellophane packaging. I’m no novice when it comes to bedroom toys, though I’m not a huge fan of cockrings. My one experience left me underwhelmed. And a little bit stuck, but that’s another story. The pink silicone makes it look eerily like jellyfish skin. A jellyfish wearing headlights, thanks to the attached vibe. I drop both to the glass top before unsheathing the tickler from its packet, curious to see how something so small could ever be fun, when the bathroom door opens.

  I’d been trying to ignore the fact that she might’ve locked herself in there to cry—not because I’m especially good at making women cry, though I’ve unfortunately had my moments a time or two—but because last week, in Postman’s Park, I noticed she seemed to have a very fine emotional trigger where tears are concerned. Her eyes had glazed with tears a couple of times and that seemed to further piss her off.

  So I’d been trying to ignore the fact and not gaining an ounce of satisfaction from it. Bottom line? I was wrong about what she was doing in there. Because she’s no longer wearing the oversized robe but a dress instead. And Jesus, what a dress. Not quite blue and not quite silver, the fabric hugs her body from knees to chest, though she has only a suggestion of skin on display thanks to an overlay of fine mesh. It’s the kind of dress a star of the silver screen would’ve worn on the cover of Life magazine or Vanity Fair.

  As she slides her hair over one shoulder, I realise she’s not quite fully dressed as the fabric gapes, Heather pressing her hand to her chest for modesty’s sake. With a jolt, I realise I don’t want to see her half-dressed; I want to see the image of her in reverse.

  For her dress to fall inch by soft inch as she moves her hand.

  For it to pool on the floor.

  For her to take my hand as her help to step from it and then bring her into my arms.

  She is a knockout. A deadly dame from a film noir. I’d known today was going to be hard, but I just didn’t think it was going to be like this.

  The tight in the pants kind of hard.

  And then she kills me—dead—when she says,

  ‘Don’t read too much into this, but could you zip me up?’

  8

  Heather

  Mortifying. Embarrassing. Undignified. Of all the things I wanted to appear, once I’d pulled myself together in the bathroom, none of these were it. Yet I am all of these things.

  Mortified to have to ask him—why didn’t I think of the zipper when I chose this dress?

  Embarrassed that I’d had to escape to the confines of the bathroom in the first place to compose myself.

  Undignified is the way I feel as I stand before him, my hand the only thing keeping my dress in place. But at least I have my favourite shoes on; red and black Valentino heels with a gorgeous peep-toe that I picked up for a steal in a charity shop in Primrose Hill.

  And Archer is responsible for all of this as he stands on the other side of the room, the size of which only makes him seem larger. Darker. More. There’s something just too good to be true about him, I think, as he stares back at me unspeaking, one hand slipped into the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe it’s the slant of his cheekbones or how the light behind him turns his dark hair to an inky black. A sharp-looking suit hangs against the wardrobe, which means he hasn’t turned up to this wedding wearing jeans to spite me. Not that there’s anything wrong with Archer Powell wearing just jeans. In fact, it’s something I think I might like to see . . .

  I did not just entertain that thought.
>
  Or imagine his tanned, toned magnificence wearing nothing but a knowing smile and a pair of low-slung jeans.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there with that smug look on your face, or are you going to help me?’ My words are like machine-gunned deceits as I realise I’m probably gawking very obviously at half of my daydream. My chest feels tight with such choking foolishness and I hate that nothing seems to ruffle him. I should’ve known that even this would’ve turned into a battle or a game of one-upmanship.

  ‘You’re saying you need me?’

  Need is a little strong, possibly. Want, definitely. Also, inexplicably.

  But these are all impulses that can be controlled.

  ‘As much as it pains me to ask, yes. I need you to fasten my dress. Because, strangely enough, I don’t have the arm span of an octopus.’

  ‘You only had to ask,’ he murmurs, sauntering across the room in that way he has. All confidence and ease.

  ‘I thought I had asked,’ I grumble in an undertone, ducking my gaze as he approaches. Then he’s behind me, his fingers light at the nape of my neck as a fission of something unfamiliar shimmers across my skin.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just enjoying the moment.’

  Does he mean he’s enjoying my discomfort, my request, or does he mean . . .

  ‘Your skin is the colour of cream,’ he muses.

  I let out a breath, relieved almost. I’d been expecting some criticism or jibe, not compliments or gentleness.

  ‘Goes with the ginger hair.’ I shiver again as my hair tickles my spine.

  ‘Why are redheads always clumped together as ginger?’ he asks as a rasp of metal on metal sounds in the quiet room, the fabric beginning to hug my body. ‘Your hair is so much more than one colour. It’s red and amber and copper, but you’ve also got a lot of sunshine in these strands.’

  ‘I don’t know. We’re just gingers. Pale and uninteresting.’ I could tell him so many names I’ve been called. Ginger. Carrot top. Casper, thanks to my pale skin. But I won’t say any of this because it’s as tedious as it is marginalising. Or it would be if I let it define me anymore. I know I’m never going to worry Scarlett Johansson, but I can bear to stand my own reflection. I suppose I’m passably pretty, even if one of the horrible bastards came up with the name Heather Weirdington.

  ‘There.’ The zipper ends beneath my shoulder blades, the silk organza sheath held together by a catch at my nape. As he fastens it, his fingers tickle, and a wash of goosebumps spread across my skin. ‘Don’t you feel lucky I’m here?’

  ‘I’ll be even luckier when you move to another room.’ I pull the fabric over my thighs to straighten it, wiggling a little as my hair tickles again.

  ‘How will you get out of your dress tonight if I’m not here?

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage something,’ I mutter. Suddenly, his hands land on my upper arms, and he twists me to face him.

  ‘So long as that something isn’t a someone.’ His index finger tips my chin, bringing my gaze up to his. ‘You created this narrative. I won’t be made a fool of.’

  ‘You think I’m about to cop off with someone?’ Is that what he thinks? ‘I meant I’d sleep in my dress if I had to.’ I step from the heat of his skin and the heady scent of his aftershave. The hint of citrus and underlying the spice that just adds to the whole alluring/maddening affect. ‘If you haven’t already,’—because I’m not sure if this is part of his teasing nature—‘you need to book your room. Actually, you know what? Let me help you with that.’ I make my way over to the phone on the nightstand, intent on calling reception.

  ‘You’re sure you want to do that when we’re supposed to be here together?’

  ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Seeing each other is usually a polite euphemism for fucking. Fucking requires proximity, or in this case, at least the appearances of.’

  ‘We don’t need to tell anyone we aren’t sharing a room,’ I reply quickly.

  ‘But someone might see. And we both know that’s how rumours start.’

  ‘We’ll just have to be careful,’ I argue, ‘because you can’t possibly stay here.’ My gaze slides to the bed, almost as though to imagine us both in there. As hard as I try, I can’t. ‘There’s no way I can sleep with you.’ Not even platonically. ‘No. I just can’t do it.’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was so repulsive,’ he retorts, a little arrogantly, totally hamming it up for effect.

  ‘I’m not insulting your desirability. I’m sure you’re very attractive to lots of girls.’

  ‘But not to you, of course. You’re above such carnality.’

  ‘Are you going to let me call reception, or what?’

  ‘Here, give it to me.’ He slides past me, picking up the receiver as he slips his hand into his back pocket again. ‘They’ll need my credit card.’

  ‘And then you really must think about getting dressed.’

  He pressed a couple of buttons, muttering under his breath. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I think he just suggested I’d get my pound of flesh.

  ‘Hello. Yes. I’d like to book another room, please?’

  Good. Yes, that’s what we need. A little distance. Because our current proximity would only bring us to homicide.

  ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with the room we’re in.’ Archer slides me a less than impressed glance. ‘We just need an additional one.’

  Preferably on another floor.

  ‘Oh. Really. Well, I suppose that’s that. No, nothing else. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘No,’ I whisper as he replaces the receiver and turns to face me. ‘No—there must be a room.’ There has to be—there’s no question of us sharing a bed.

  ‘Do you know something that reception doesn’t? Because they’re under the impression the hotel is fully booked for this wedding.’

  I drop heavily against the mattress, my mind awash with . . . things. There’s a spindly chair near the window which is not a place anyone could sleep. There’s no bath in the bathroom, come to think of. Just a shower. Which leaves the floor I know he won’t offer to sleep on and a bed that’s barely a double.

  ‘Which side do you sleep on?’ His tone is so mild, I look up, knowing his gaze has followed mine. And the bastard is wearing a smile like a half a pizza.

  ‘In the middle,’ I snipe.

  ‘Yeah, me, too. Want to be the little or the big spoon?’

  * * *

  ‘So, hand-holding is allowed,’ Archer repeats, closing the door behind him as we leave the room.

  ‘You know it is. We talked about this already.’ I take the opportunity to covertly look at him. He’d arrived in jeans and a worn cotton T-shirt which moulded to the peaks and ridges of his body as he moved. Which I’d managed not to stare at too much. But when he threatened to take a shower before changing into his suit, I almost had a fit, managing to persuade him that we didn’t have time.

  ‘Kissing?’

  ‘No,’ I grate out. ‘We already establish that, too.’

  ‘But couples kiss, Heather. There’s touching and kissing and the stroking of hair. The hair on your head, that is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he almost sings, taking my hand and swinging it a little manically, like children having fun on a playground.

  ‘You can let go now.’

  ‘Nope. Got to keep up appearances.’

  ‘Because you have a reputation to uphold.’ His hand tightens on mine in warning. We make our way unspeaking along the long, wonky floored hallway, our gaits leaning to the left to keep us upright in the face of ancient subsidence.

  ‘You’re wrong, you know.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I glance his way, though his eyes remain straight ahead.

  ‘You’re wrong about this strange little relationship of ours stopping you from being hassled by the blokes at work.’

  ‘I didn’t mention anything about me getting hassled. I get left alone for the most pa
rt. Well, apart from Haydn, who I’m sure next week will be all business as usual.’

  ‘It’s not business with him, though, is it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever considered what his issue is?’

  ‘Yes. And whatever it is I’m sure he finds it really hard to pronounce.’

  ‘Sharp.’ In my peripheral vision, I see him shake his head. Not a compliment, then.

  ‘He’s not stupid. He can’t be at the level of management he is. Not even if he’d sucked a lot of metaphoric cock on the way up.’

  ‘Maybe they were less metaphoric and more corporeal?’ Yuck, because I almost said fleshy.

  ‘You think he’s gay?’ His tone is tinged with disbelief as we turn a corner and approach a grand staircase, the kind wide enough for a small SUV to drive down. A stag’s head that appears prehistorically huge stares across at us from the wall of the half landing below.

  ‘Who knows. All I know is he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘He isn’t gay. You really don’t know why he likes to lord it over you?’

  ‘Ten points to Slytherin for hitting the nail on the head.’

  His brow creases briefly. ‘What about me says Slytherin?’

  ‘Your hair. And the way your eyes are set too close together.’ He begins to laugh, and why wouldn’t he? He must own a mirror. He definitely owns a mirror. He probably looks in it lots, too. ‘And also—’

  ‘Because you secretly want me to Slytherin to your Chamber of Secrets?’

  I groan like I’m in pain. And I am. I’m in pain of being worn down by his ridiculousness. I’m also secretly impressed that we have something in common, even if that something relates to our childhoods. I’d even forgive him for admitting he’d only watched the films. Also, there’s no need to admit to having reread the whole Harry Potter series from start to finish last year.

  ‘Arch.’ Someone vaguely familiar passes us, nodding to Archer and shooting me a quick smile. Someone from IT, maybe? As he begins to trot down the stairs, I take note of what he’s wearing. Dark pants, a white shirt rolled to his elbows, and a vest and flat cap made from matching tweed.